


And On

by ehditaan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabbles, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Spoilers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehditaan/pseuds/ehditaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short drabbles, mini-fics to fill in the detail and the inner dialouge I imagine in Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Sort of Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand reunion, told from Sherlock's perspective.  
> Takes place in season three, episode one.

The noise of the restaurant, the calculations and disguise fall away as Sherlock’s senses are encompassed with John. John. Alive and here in the flesh. Close enough to touch. 

Of course Sherlock had been entirely aware that John was alive and well in London, his every move tracked by the omnipotent eye of Mycroft’s precious government. But surprisingly the fact of this hadn’t quite put his mind at ease the way standing before John now did.

Despite the reassurance of John’s continued existence in this world Sherlock finds himself almost nervous, god forbid, even nearing on giddy. He is out of practice in the social niceties that John once encouraged in him. He has no filter after two years on the hunt. And in truth he feels more than satisfaction at the prospect of a return to normal, and isn’t it funny how even after two years without it, his time with John seems like a default state. 

What he actually feels is an incomprehensible gladness beyond the ease of familiarity. He is happy to see John. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of it in his exile but he actually missed John. 

He incomprehensibly wants to express this in some way; to share the joy and relief. Surely John must also feel some easing of an ignored tightness, clenching even, around a metaphorical empty space. But of course Sherlock does not think or communicate in metaphors. And he is not well versed in the experience of human emotion outside the context of criminal motivation.

So he allows a small smile to quirk his face and he comments on the only thing he can innocently fix on: John’s ridiculous moustache. Really they can’t be seen together like this. 

And then; John explodes forward, hands outstretched to wrap around Sherlock’s slender neck. And Sherlock has never seen such pure and beautiful rage in this steady face before. This the man who can stand bravely with a bomb strapped to his chest, nonchalant post life-saving murder, his capabilities for such extremes of feeling will certainly warrant further study.

Why for example, why this? How after all the ears and fingernails and cross sections of muscle nestled next to the milk, after the times Sherlock has forgotten John, left him stranded or struggling to catch up, after the gentle exasperation in the face of all those indignities, how has this finally broken his composure. This is a good thing. Isn’t it? He isn’t dead. He is giving John what he asked for.  
Unless he’s too late? But no, that is illogical. Average people mourn the dead for ridiculous lengths of time. Surely John should be happy to see him?

Sherlock reaches up to grasp John’s wrists before he is driven across the dining room and slammed backwards into the floor, choking. The reactions of their fellow patrons, the force and precise movements necessary to dislodge his old comrade are all catalogued instantaneously in the background of his mind. Taking center stage are the individual points of contact between his skin and John’s, an autonomic reflex.

John’s lightly callused hands against his pulse on either side of his throat, his own slender fingers wrapped around John’s sturdy wrists. And his thumb, which strokes over the back of John’s hand, a gentleness against John’s force. 

This is the first time they have touched in two years. For all that it is a violent touch, like most contact has been through his period of exile, he has learned through extensive study of crime and human character that violence most reliably stems from passion. That even hate is so frequently born of love. This is not the cold, lazy violence of a prison guard, nor the desperate act of a cornered fugitive. This reaction is an outlier in the character of a disciplined man. Sherlock incites out of character reactions in John.

Just as John has been known to perpetrate strange behaviors in Sherlock; attempts at politeness, the occasional consideration of another’s needs. He wishes that he and John could be distilled into chemical compounds and taken into the lab so that their transformative properties on each other could be studied properly.

He frowns at his own whimsy as John is hauled off of him. Good, he would have hated to intervene and possibly hurt John thereby causing further wrath.

The next two assaults wear away the nostalgic rose-tint of the ache he’s been ignoring. He’s back now, facts are facts. He will never understand the human reluctance to accept current situations as they shift and change.

When Mary looks on him with sympathy and a strange sort of glee, instantly recognizing his largest lack in knowledge and accepting it with an ease only John has ever matched he begins to think she may come in useful after all.


	2. A Sort of Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just watched The Sign of Three. This came to my mind. It is the first fic I've posted. Originally on my blog at http://ehditaan.tumblr.com

“Three.”

They laughed, they grinned, they began to panic. And for once Sherlock looked at them without any of his customary scorn for the little folk. As he had attempted to make clear, for all their shortcomings these were nothing like your average specimen of humanity. 

He grinned right along with them. He let loose no jibe. He met John’s eyes. The wonderment there, so often directed at him was now torn. Torn between Sherlock’s genius pronouncement, and quickly shifting away to focus on the new life growing slowly within his wife.

And Sherlock allowed this loss, he almost surprised himself, but he should have known he would do anything for John. So, he passed his baton, and pretended to accept the newest drain on all of John’s attention and affection and wonderment. 

He turned from them then, the blossoming family, the sort of people he wasn’t stupid enough to wish he could be.  
Except for one moment. For just one heavy moment he looked around at the heaving, awkward, belonging mass of friends and well-wishers, and he felt a treacherous longing. So he turned, and he took himself away. He wrapped his coat around himself, collar up, spine straight, and he tried not to hear John’s imaginary chuckle at his dramatics. 

He tried not to remember how that voice had taken up residence in his once pristine mind for those two long years. He tried not to admit that it had made a home there. And he refused to realize how little he may be hearing the real thing in the years to come.  
There were cases to solve, interests to cultivate, cigarettes to go unsmoked.


End file.
